Because I can
by Cheekbonesandcoatcollar
Summary: "So why now?" John Watson asks with a smile, "Why like this?"   "Just because I can."   The world changes but some things, like the Holmes brothers, never do. Greg/Mycroft


**Because I can - Mycroft/Lestrade.**

**Summary: "So why now?" John Watson asks with a smile, "Why like this?" **

"**Just because I can." The world changes but some things, like the Holmes brothers, never did.**

…**...**

**A/N: Slight Maurice crossover though not enough to warrant a crossover fic on here. Hope you enjoy!**

…**..**

In his dream Lestrades lover is blonde, not the soft reddish brown he is used to but golden, like the sun. Everything else however is the same; not physically of course, in his dream his lovers face is softer, nose smaller, jaw more refined, body a little harder around the edges, more muscle than the soft flesh he is used to. The eyes are different, blue instead of the sharp, intelligent hazel Lestrade is accustomed to. His mannerisms and his spoken word however have not changed at all, he is still well spoken, almost impossibly so, words that Lestrade is pretty sure even the dictionary hasn't heard of spill from his mouth and its rather rare that Lestrade actually ever follows their conversations a hundred percent.

His mannerisms, the way he holds himself high, the way he carries himself when he walks, proud and strong. Powerful. That is the same.

Despite the physical differences, the facial expressions are the same, varying from disdain, disgust, anger at the world and unadulterated, pure love when he looks at Lestrade. His dress sense has barely changed either except maybe its older, his whole dream seems to be out of this time, years ago.

Even with all the differences, Lestrade is sure that his dream lover and his lover in the waking world are the same person. He just knows, like he knows that it is himself in the dream. Not because he is dreaming it, that would be too obvious but because in the dream, he looks into a mirror and sees himself, sort of, long brown hair, work roughened face, much younger and darker skinned but still himself. His lover calls him by another name, but Lestrade files it away as unimportant.

The dream is a simple one, they lie in bed together, just like they do in the waking world, only in this dream there is no phone to distract them to pull them from the warmth of their blankets and pillows. No national crisis, no crimes. No murders to drag Lestrade into work and more than likely into headache inducing communication with the enigma that is Sherlock Holmes. They are pressed closely together, naked as the day they were born and there is barely a hairs breadth between them. This is nothing new, his lover had always been like a limpet an arm tucked under here, a leg over there.

They are both awake and his lover is speaking and even in sleep Greg has to concentrate to keep up.

"It was preposterous!" his lover cried, "The stall owner kept asking me, where's your brother today? He ill? Where he at? _Where he at?_ His grammar was almost as bad as yours!"

Lestrade laughs, the fond insult is nothing new, Lestrade would never be as eloquent as his lover and his lover was never more alive than when he was insulting someone. It was sweet really.

"I almost told him." His lover says, self righteous anger leaving his voice, replaced with disdain and an underlying sadness that Lestrade rarely saw in his lover and never wanted to. "I almost let it slip love, the truth. I wanted to throttle him and exclaim to the world and the simpleton at the stall, he's not my brother! He's my lover!"

"It's alright," Lestrade says, whilst simultaneously realising that the brother mentioned was not a brother at all.

"Sometimes I wish that we could just tell them," his lover whispers, voice muffled against Lestrades collar bone, "but after that last couple, it seems like a bit of a suicide wish does it not? To expose ourselves and risk undue attention."

Lestrade feels himself nod, "We're happy here are we not?" His lover asks and Lestrade exclaims that he has never been happier.

"Fuck the rest of the world!" he hears himself exclaim and his lovers laugh is the same as it always is, a loud bark followed by a shocked expression at his own undignified outburst. Eventually they sleep and the dream changes.

They walk together through an old market, greeted by long term acquaintances; they can't really be considered friends. Lestrade has the feeling that these people barely know them at all.

Lestrade wants nothing more than to reach out, grasp his lovers hand in his own and show him off to the world, tell them that this man belongs to him and he ignores the small voice in his head that tells him it is a bad idea and does so.

Only the reaction isn't exactly what he expects, his lovers hand, bigger in his dream, pulls abruptly away as if scalded, and the look that is sent his was screams of 'Idiot!'

Lestrade doesn't understand, sure he has never tried to publically claim his lover before but he had never imagined this. At least not in his _dream_ where things are generally nicer than in real life. He is hurt, confused and then suddenly like a slap in the face or a bullet to the chest (something he has narrowly missed on a number of occasions mainly due to Sherlock Holmes and by extension John Watson.) he understands. He can feel the icy glares of the surrounding market goers, the tension in the air is almost solid, there are growing murmurs of disgust and unnatural and his stomach feels like it is in his throat. Oh.

He wakes, not with a scream or a shout but with a whimper. A gentle sound of understanding. He does understand, he knows what his dream and mind are trying to tell him. In his dream it was frowned upon, illegal even to love another man. The secret in the dream was necessary, imperative an obligation, not like in real life where the secret was a choice, something both Lestrade and his lover enjoyed, the thrill of going behind everyone's backs and sneaking around.

The thrill of knowing something no one else did, not even the great Sherlock Holmes.

These days, in these times, the secret is not necessary and Lestrade feels suddenly, extremely sick.

He doesn't get back to sleep that night and when morning comes he is inevitably exhausted and in a less than great mood, which is made worse than by the unwanted but not unexpected arrival of Sherlock Holmes at his newest crime scene. It's the third this week, same M.O, same killer undoubtedly and he would have called Sherlock in eventually anyway, but it grates on his frayed nerves that Sherlock always assumes and turns up _uninvited._

"Sorry about this." John Watson says apologetically. "He's been crawling up the walls with boredom waiting for your text, literally trying to crawl up the walls, something about gravity. We're here for the sake of my sanity too."

"Good to hear." Lestrade replies dryly as he watches the lithe form of the Sherlock man-child as he has come to refer to the detective over the years, practically prance around his crime scene. Lestrade is so tired he doesn't even bother to take notes; he'll get it all in Sherlock's statement after he's caught the killer.

"He's hiding from Mycroft too." John explains, "Though from past experience it wont work."

"There are four CCTV cameras facing this way, we had to pull the tapes for any signs of the killer." Lestrade replies.

"If they are facing this way then he's already found us." John says with a laugh.

"It would seem so." Lestrade replies, aiming for nonchalance, probably failing.

"Indeed it would," another voice sounds from behind them, "Really Doctor Watson I would have expected you to be able to hold out against my brothers incessant whining for a little longer than this."

"You weren't there. He was physically climbing up the walls. He was moments away from shooting the wall again or possibly shooting you when you arrived."

"Yes well." Mycroft Holmes sniffed petulantly, "Good morning Detective inspector."

"Morning Mycroft." He almost says, instead he nods amicably.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock Holmes asks angrily as he joins them.

"I wish for you to take the case I offered you Sherlock."

"Is your diet not working out?" Sherlock asks, "Still too overweight to do your own leg work?"

"Running around London is rather undignified." Mycroft replies.

"Exercise you mean?" Sherlock says.

Lestrade thinks Mycroft is fine the way he is, more than fine, he doesn't need exercise.

"Sherlock you git." He murmurs.

A withering glance is his only response.

"Sherlock, don't waste your time here, it was obviously the psychiatrist. This case is government official, of the highest importance, and you will be rewarded handsomely. I cannot ask anyone else as it must be handled with the ut.."

Lestrade kissed him.

The world faded slowly away like it always did when he kissed Mycroft.

No, Mycroft wasn't blonde. Blondes were overrated anyway, he didn't have eyes the colour of the summer sky or some other poetic jargon, instead he had intelligent sharp, sometimes rather terrifying eyes, he was softer around the middle, remnants from yo-yo dieting. His suits were impeccably tailored to him and that umbrella infuriated Lestrade to no end. But he loved Mycroft Holmes, had done for three years, been his partner or boyfriend or whatever they were classed as for two and a half. Mycroft Holmes who controlled the British government despite his protests that he only occupied a minor position, who had the national anthem permanently set as his ringtone, though Lestrade suspected Sherlock had something to do with that. Mycroft Holmes who would more likely kill someone than help them, who stalks those important to him over CCTV cameras he shouldn't have access to.

Mycroft Holmes who wore sweat pants at home, who craved Lestrades signature pasta dish, who kissed and made love more passionately than Lestrade would have ever expected.

Mycroft who was frozen underneath Lestrade's lips ad grip in his previously impeccable hair. Lestrade blanched, the world slowly returning to focus.

Sally Donovan's loud question, "What the hell are you doing sir?"

John Watson's gleeful, "I knew it!"

Andersons grumbled protests, possibly homophobic, Lestrade would sort that later, that is if Mycroft allowed him to live long enough to do so.

Sherlocks silence spoke louder than any words.

Lestrade closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against Mycrofts.

Only the fading memory of his dream kept him from pulling away, that, and the fact that he wasn't yet dead by Mycrofts hands which was an upside.

"I'm sorry." Lestrade whispered gently, only John and Sherlock in earshot to hear, "I'm sorry My, I just… I didn't mean…"

"Shut up." Mycroft hisses, Lestrade flinches, moves to pull away, cant, finds lips on his own again.

He can hear snippets of conversation again, muffled unimportant voices,

"Did you know about this John?" Sherlock.

"..bloody obvious! How did you…" John.

"Hardly appropriate for.." Donovan.

"Disgusting." Anderson, Lestrade would definitely speak to him later.

"My brother… sex… I feel sick." Sherlock.

"….years now…" John.

"I love you." Mycroft.

Lestrade groans, "God My, I thought you'd be angry with me."

"Why?" Mycroft smiles, uncharacteristically, "You have no idea how long I've wanted people to know, not just my brother and your _collueges_." The last word dripping with his lovers famous disdain.

Lestrade finds himself laughing, pulls his lover to his chest. Embraces him. So inappropriate, when you took in their surroundings.

"How did I not see this?" Sherlock's voice sounds, from the side.

"Maybe you deleted it?" John says.

"Possibly."

"Or perhaps brother," Mycroft says lifting his head from Lestrade's collarbone, "You are not as observant as you like to think."

"John is right. I must have deleted it." Sherlock says, "I'm still not taking your case."

The youngest Holmes stalks off towards the direction of the crime scene tape.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft calls angrily, disentangling himself from Lestrade and following after him.

"They'll be back, Greg." John says staring after his flatmate and Mycroft fondly, arms crossed over his chest.

"I know."

"So why now?" John asks, "Why like that?"

Lestrade doesn't even bother to ask the doctor how he knew.

"Mycroft told me during one of my kidnappings." John supplies as if he had read his mind. "So why now?" he asks again.

"Just because I could John," he replies, watching the brothers argue by Mycrofts expensive car, parked illegally. Some things changed in this world, the public, the law, people, and some things, the Holmes brothers being one of those, never did.

…**..**

**So what did you think? =]**


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